


The Cottage and its Acquisition

by maudlindebauchery



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley go house hunting, House Hunting, It's a whole ordeal, Kind of slow burn tho, M/M, Post-Armageddon, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maudlindebauchery/pseuds/maudlindebauchery
Summary: "I mean, two people, they say two can live as cheaply as one."Crowley quirked a sharp brow. He tried desperately to maintain a casual tone, mostly to no avail. "Do they– do they say that?""They do," Aziraphale affirmed, "and what's more, I don't think I'd do very well living on my own, at all. Imagine that. You can't, can you?"Crowley sniffed and shook his head a bit. "Nah, not really."---Armageddon was averted, peace is restored. It only makes sense for the angel and the demon to live in closer proximity to each other.





	1. Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Assume the night at Crowley's place was mostly taken up by their body swapping plans. Those must have taken a long time. They're not a couple yet. Peep the little Madame Tracy/Shadwell reference!

  
A demon and an angel were reading separate sections of The Times over lovely little dishes of berries, which had been prepared by said angel. The angel, who was called Aziraphale, wore a pleased, albeit sleepy smile on his plump limps. He was glancing between the current events and the crossword. The demon, who was called Crowley, appeared to be scanning the cartoons. To the best of Aziraphale's knowledge, that is, Crowley was scanning the cartoons. In actuality, Crowley had been peering at a page of real estate adverts. He set the page down flippantly and went back to the dish of raspberries, as well as the cartoons.

"Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat is playing at the Palladium." Aziraphale said.

"That was one of yours. I know that was one of yours," Crowley replied, not looking up from the cartoons, " _Down There_ , though, they think it's ours."

"Why?!" Aziraphale asked, incredulous.

"Cheesy," Crowley replied simply, "thought it made a mockery of the Almighty."

Aziraphale harumphed in protest, "They did a very poor job of fact checking! Anybody who heard _"Close Every Door"_ with their own ears would be certain that piece was Heaven sent... Well, Heaven _inspired_ , more like. Andrew Lloyd Webber is a tricky fellow."

Crowley offered a little hum that neither signified protest nor agreement, and the conversation fell away into the comfortable silence as the angel and demon ate. 

It was a rare occurrence for Aziraphale to tear his attention from a meal, but the page Crowley had put to the side caught his eye. It was titled "Residences", with little hard to read descriptive paragraphs, and sometimes tiny images of London properties that had evidently gone up for sale, or perhaps were in want of additional roommates. The angel's interest was certainly piqued, as a recent idea he had been toying with was brought up once more. It felt like fate, ineffability, or a very happy, though pointed coincidence – a coincidence which was telling him to _get on with things already_.

Aziraphale, although a creature of habit, was also a creature of pleasure. He loved his little bookshop in Soho, in fact he was rather devoted to the small business he had developed – despite the fact that he refrained from doing business as often as he could. However, for an immortal being, he had resided in Soho for quite a long time. It had been over 200 years since he had even considered moving, as he was so fond of the place, but now scanning the advertisements before him, he was ignited with a fondness for the stunning variety of residences London had to offer. What was more, he thought, was the variety in the rest of England. (He may have been feeling restless, but Somebody knew Aziraphale had molded himself into a greater Englishman than most who were born and raised in the country. Celestial birth be damned, Aziraphale would not move out of England. Never in a million years.)

Glancing across the small table, Aziraphale was reminded of the effect such a transition would have on his companion. Crowley, the demon, his best friend – now more openly, since they had averted Armageddon and frightened the living daylights out of Heaven and Hell together. They had always ended up living quite close to one another, coincidentally or not. If Aziraphale was to be honest with himself, he would reason that after all that effort, there wasn't any way Crowley would prefer to live apart from him. Now that they were free to _fraternize_ , it might as well have been in close proximity. Anything else was just silly. Despite the lump in his throat, Aziraphale decided he would bring this to Crowley's attention.

" _You know..._ " Aziraphale began. Crowley looked up, sensing the trepidation in the angel's tone, and furrowed his brow. "I've got a tidy bit put away."

"What do you mean?" Crowley asked suspiciously.

Aziraphale went on to explain, "Well, I sometimes think it would be a nice thing to get a little bungalow, in the country somewhere. Move out of London. I'd call it The Laurels, or Dunroamin, or, or . . ."

" _Shangri-La,_ " suggested Crowley, and for the life of him could not think why.

"Exactly, Crowley. Exactly. _Shangri-La._ " He smiled at him. "Are you quite comfortable, dear?"

Crowley was very aware of just how comfortable he was. Horribly, terrifyingly comfortable, as he always had been in the angel's presence – no matter where they were. "Yeah," he said, warily. He had never been so comfortable.

"The only trouble with having a little bungalow, called—what was your clever idea, Crowley?"

"Uh. Shangri-La."

"Shangri-La, exactly, is that it's not right for one, is it? I mean, two people, they say two can live as cheaply as one."

Crowley quirked a sharp brow. He tried desperately to maintain a casual tone, mostly to no avail. " _Do they_ – do they say that?"

"They _do_ ," Aziraphale affirmed, "and what's more, I don't think I'd do very well living on my own, at all. Imagine that. You can't, can you?"

Crowley sniffed and shook his head a bit. "Nah, not really."

And so, the angel and the demon regarded each other for some long, wordless moments, both with the expectation that one would offer up some wise sentiment before the other. Neither did. Crowley looked nervous. Aziraphale looked sure of himself.

" _Well...?_ " Aziraphale asked.

"Well..." Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale was an angel. He was built to be kind, he reminded himself. The practical parts of him overtook the nervous ones in times like these. He couldn't bring himself to offer Crowley any comfort but a warm, sympathetic smile as he awaited his answer. In his defense, however, the smile of an angel was far warmer than any human's. _There was a reason so many great Renaissance painters had used Aziraphale as a model._ "What say you, hm?"

"You're asking me to move in with you, angel?" Crowley finally asked with a sort of disbelief that almost sounded like distrust. Of course, the demon trusted Aziraphale more than anything. Distrust wasn't ever a plausible option.

Aziraphale nodded slowly, calmly, with that angelic certainty that reminded Crowley that this same being once wielded a flaming sword, fought in a righteous battle and won, looked after humanity for six millennia with burning, passionate love. His composure was powerful – immeasurable. Crowley felt a wreck by comparison – biting at his cheek, running spindly fingers amongst each other, eyes darting to and fro. Aziraphale seemed to take a cue that Crowley hadn't realized he gave.

"Well, if you'd rather not, that's just fine, too, of course. It was merely a suggestion, something I had been mulling over for a bit–" Aziraphale surrendered.

Crowley interrupted quickly, "I didn't say I'd rather not."

Aziraphale made a face. " _Oh?_ "

"'Course I will," Again, Crowley did his best to force the casual air he was after. He was somewhat successful. "not much else to do, really."

Aziraphale didn't attempt to hide the joy creeping onto his round, rosy cheeks. His smile, as always, possessed a warmth greater than any sun in any galaxy Crowley knew of. "Well, that will be lovely! We'll certainly have a fair amount of logistics to barrel through, but nothing we can't handle, hm? Now, dear, _do you intend to finish those raspberries?_ "


	2. Progress and Setbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is not quite as good at packing as Crowley is. Crowley gets the job done, then helps out a little extra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get in a habit of expecting that I'll have new chapters up this quickly, but I've been on a creative kick recently! So without further ado, here's chapter two of their house hunting antics.

A demon and an angel were in separate parts of London, attending to separate affairs. Actually –– the demon and the angel were always in nearly the same part of London. The demon Crowley had moved into a small, elegant flat in Mayfair, which was only a ten minute bus ride to Soho, or a four minute ride in his 1926 Bentley. So, while they were not necessarily a great distance from each other, they were not in the same room, either. That was becoming more and more uncommon as of late.

Since Aziraphale had proposed their mutual relocation, they had both begun to busy themselves with the logistics of the matter. Crowley's flat had been miracled into existence, and he planned to miracle it out of existence, as well. He didn't want any humans to tarnish his old stomping grounds with fluffy couches or heavy backpacks or family photos, and certainly not any Bibles, crosses – those silly demonstrative forms of decor that ultra-religious Londoners had so embraced. Crowley figured it might cause an explosion, considering the demonic energy he would leave behind. Yes, better to just pack his things, move out, and wish away the third floor. That way the university students on the fourth floor would find themselves rather lost as their flat moved to the third floor, the polo player on the fifth floor would wander aimlessly as his flat moved to the fourth, and so on. The little old lady on the first floor would be unaffected. Crowley would never admit that may have been purposeful.

Crowley had a fair amount of boxes before him, and chose to do the packing by hand. This was rare. He preferred the convenience of his demonic abilities on most occasions, but in this case, he thought it might do some good to evaluate the possessions he'd accumulated over the years – see what was worth keeping, what ought to be thrown out, what needed to be wrapped and packed carefully (with the care of his near-human hands, not the gambled safety of demonic energy), and most of all, though of course he would not admit it, he really needed to do a good bit of pondering on what Aziraphale would think of it all.

They had very different styles, the demon and the angel, as anyone might assume a demon and angel would. However, the demon Crowley did not favor Satanic imagery or grotesque, rotting figures, and the angel Aziraphale did not decorate with bright white in excess, crosses, Bibles (aside from his collection of fascinating misprints), or anything in relation to harps or horns. No, Crowley preferred simple, minimalistic decor. There was not a great deal of color in Crowley's flat, mostly glossy blacks and whites, and little pops of green or dark wood or burgundy wherever it seemed most suitably dramatic. He had a room full of potted plants, too. Aziraphale preferred old, outdated damasks, tartans, and argyles in aged shades of beige, pale yellows and pinks – something akin to the tastes of a seventy year old woman who had once been a housewife and had always been very rich. Crowley wondered how they were ever going to agree on a single decoration, and that wasn't even taking paint or wallpaper into account.

He began the endeavor in his bedroom, which luckily did not contain any clothing, shoes, or other useless human items. He had a bed to take apart, silk sheets and a dark comforter to fold, seven goose feather pillows to box away, and a few sentimental possessions which he would peruse. He didn't keep books for the most part, as that was Aziraphale's domain, and snake eyes really weren't suited for long periods of complex text evaluation. Plus, he thought books were fairly boring. He did have two black leather photo albums, though, which contained hundreds of photographs dating back millennia before photography was invented, at all. He had sketches from some of the greatest painters in history, and he made a mental note to show Aziraphale those once they were both unpacking. He had a few real paintings, some letters he had kept for an embarrassingly long time, some silly postcards, and they were all carefully bubble wrapped and packed into one medium sized box.

It was strange, finishing his work in the bedroom and taking a step back to observe. He wasn't overly fond of his flat, not like Aziraphale was with his bookshop, but that was not to say he didn't like it. On the contrary, he appreciated it quite a lot. He hadn't had it as long as Aziraphale had had his shop, but for a bit less than two hundred years, the place had provided him with adequate shelter, a space to brood, relax, drink, take up hobbies, and brood a bit more. In this very bedroom, he slept for about an entire century when tensions had risen with his angel. Now, all that remained was a dark, deconstructed bed frame, a king sized mattress propped against the wall, and three boxes of various sizes. That was that. He gave an appreciative _hmph_ , looked about one more time, and headed into his living room to continue his work.

~⧖~

One ten minute bus ride away, a certain angel had become rather weepy. He knew it was his idea, moving and all, but Lord–– _Somebody_ , if he didn't love his bookshop with all his heart. It was cozy and cramped and cluttered in a way that Aziraphale was perfectly familiar with. He could find any book on any shelf at any time, drunk or sober, too. (He had actually tested that before.)

He had gone with Crowley to purchase boxes at a hardware store, and he had needed roughly seven times more boxes than Crowley did – that was not an exaggeration. He had a truly intimidating stack of brown cardboard in the very front of the shop, all leaning against the windows, beside the door that now had a "Closed Indefinitely" sign posted on it. The sign was the inciting incident to all the crying. He tried with all his might to be businesslike and efficient, but his warm, lovely little shop would never open its doors to the public again! Though Aziraphale wasn't all that fond of the public in relation to his books, he wept despite himself.

It had only gotten worse when he had pulled a Brontë first edition from a shelf, thought just for a moment of packing it away, and got swept up in memories of a sweet young girl who once sought it out to purchase, then ended up sitting across from him over a tin of biscuits with a new library card, deep in conversation. He met so many intelligent people in a shop like this – so many who merely needed a roof over their heads in a rainstorm and tossed him some interesting tidbits about their lives, who escaped an awkward date to find Aziraphale with a thick snake draped over his shoulders and a Brecht play under his careful scrutiny, teachers who were exasperated with the lacking enthusiasm for literature in primary school students, husbands who would have paid _anything_ to get their hands on a first edition copy of their wife's favorite book (and sometimes, their _husband's_ , and Aziraphale couldn't help that he was overly sympathetic and accommodating in those cases), even little children who merely wanted to get ahold of any book they could over a particularly long vacation. Aziraphale loved them all, and he would hardly see them again – not in the same context, at least.

So, there he sat in an overstuffed armchair, weeping over Jane Eyre with a cup of cocoa on his end table and a handkerchief balled in his fist. It was certainly not a preferable time for his telephone to ring. Yet, time paid his crying no mind, and his telephone rang, indeed. The angel sniffed and scowled at the interruption, blowing his nose once more, then pulling himself together as best as he could (which was _quite_ well, actually) to pick up the phone.

"I'm afraid we're closed––"

"It's me, Aziraphale."

"Oh. Crowley."

"Yeah, I was looking through stuff and wanted to ask about rugs. You've already got some, I've already got some – how many rugs are we gonna need? I'm not gonna bother wrapping the big ones up if we're just gonna give 'em away. But, y'know, then we've got to talk about decorating, right?"

" _You're_ enthusiastic." Aziraphale replied, uncharacteristically solemn.

There was a long pause on the other end as Crowley cycled through surprise, offense, and denial. "I'm being pragmatic," he finally said in self defense, "let me guess – you're all packed already? 'Cause that's fine, we'll just deal with it once we've found a place, then."

"I––" Aziraphale was reluctant to admit his setback. "–no, not quite."

Another long pause on Crowley's end, and Aziraphale cursed how well Crowley knew him. "Angel, are you crying?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "No."

"Yeah... Yeah, you are. What happened?"

"Nothing, Crowley. Now, really, I should be getting on with–" his voice broke. _Damn everything_. "–packing."

"I'm coming over."

" _Crowley!_ "

"Yeah? What? Don't need my help? Sounds like you do, so– er– hold on, 'kay? I'll help you sort through things, if nothing else."

"I can sort things just fine, I'm very capable of–"

"Yeah, yeah, I know you are, angel, but humor me? Come on."

The longest silence yet. Aziraphale could really hold an audience, Crowley thought. _Dramatic bastard_. "If you must." he finally replied sacrificially.

"Good. See ya." And with that, Crowley hung up.

Aziraphale sighed and set his book down, checking in the mirror to ensure he didn't look too much of a mess. He frowned at his appearance. Pale blue eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and his nose was redder than that of an inebriated sailor. He splashed a bit of water on his face and toweled off, smoothing his hair, as well as his vest. It wasn't long until the bell at the front of the store jingled, and he heard Crowley's voice.

"Angel, 'm here! What's up?"

He stepped out of the bathroom to greet him, just as Crowley was taking in his surroundings.

"Somebody's sake, you _really_ haven't started yet." Crowley mused.

Aziraphale scowled, looking evasive. "I meant to. I got... carried away by nostalgia."

Crowley thought this over and nodded a little, looking over at the book, handkerchief, and cocoa – Aziraphale's idea of therapy. " _Brontë_." He stated, awkwardly repeating the name a few times, popping the B, rolling the R, just waiting for a response from the downcast angel before him.

"Yes, well... Certainly lots of memories in this old shop. Lots of lovely customers–"

"You _hate_ customers!" Crowley reminded him, hoping that might cheer him up.

"Only the persistent ones, dear. Really, I met so many lovely people here, I had so many thrilling conversations."

"Thrilling conversations?" Crowley repeated incredulously.

"Yes, and I know it's silly, but I... well, I will miss it a great deal."

Crowley thought for a moment. "'S not silly. 'Course you're gonna miss it. I saw the– y'know, the door sign."

"Ah, yes. Wretched thing."

"You sure you wanna move, angel? Really, y'know, I like London as much as you. I'd stay here if you wanted."

Aziraphale shook his head vehemently. "No, no, I have my mind made up! I really am looking forward to something a bit quieter, a real home... It will all be very _human_. A little cottage, I imagine."

Crowley gave a half smile at the thought. "A cottage?"

"By the sea, that's what I imagined." Aziraphale confirmed with a nod. "It's bittersweet, my dear. I must push through the bitter, and the sweet will come, hm?"

Crowley wiggled his head half-heartedly. "Suppose so. But, y'know, angel, you don't have to close the place _yet_. You haven't even sold it."

Aziraphale perked up at that. "No? Well, what do you suggest? I don't suppose I'll make much progress packing if I indefinitely leave my shop open to the public."

"Nah, but what about a... a final farewell party? Little get together for your fonder customers, put adverts out about it? You could even do it after you've packed the books away so they won't try and buy any with the last chance they have."

Angelic countenance was brightening with every word. "That actually sounds like a rather splendid idea..."

"Yeah, I have those sometimes."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly. "I suppose I really must pack, then."

"Right, there you go. Where do you wanna start?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I said I was comin' over to help, so where are we starting? Gimme a task, come on, angel."

Said angel looked hesitant at that. It wasn't so much that Aziraphale didn't want Crowley's help, but in his vast array of Earthly possessions, he was very aware that there were some he did not want falling under the demon's eye. But, he couldn't think of exactly where those were, and he was really quite tired from all the crying, so he thought it better to gently push the idea away.

"Crowley... Now, I _promise_ I'll get to packing, I _do_ , but it has been a rather arduous night already. Would you be so kind as to allow us to start tomorrow?"

Of course, Crowley couldn't say no. Not with the way those angelic eyes were glittering at him. "Yeah, yeah... Whatever. Procrastination's a sin, angel... or... _something_. Sloth. That's a sin, for sure." He looked around aimlessly. "What do you want to do, then?"

Aziraphale smiled warmly, very pleased that he had gotten out of his work for the night. "Why don't I put the kettle on for us, and we'll have a chat about decorating? You did sound quite enthusiastic over the phone."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's good, sure."

So, Aziraphale did as he said he would, and the angel and the demon sat down together on the plushest couch in the angel's back room. Crowley miracled up a laptop, which neither of them exactly knew how to use, and they poured over all sorts of interior design blogs, Pinterest boards, professional websites, and everything in between. Aziraphale took a liking to maximalism, which Crowley thought was hideous, given his carefully cultivated minimalist aesthetic. Their design disagreements melted away as they started looking into the seaside cottages Aziraphale was so fond of. Real estate websites took up dozens of tabs – lovely little waterfront homes with two or three bedrooms, one or two bathrooms, and often gorgeous, lush gardens. They agreed on the want of an address that would roll off the tongue. " _Hiscock Drive_ " was one they came across that left Crowley in tears, and they swore theirs would be far lovelier than that. Something like " _Wisteria Road_ " or " _Lawrence Avenue_ " – that was preferable. They both shared an appreciation for a nice front porch, which Aziraphale mused, _"Could be sat on to watch the sunset after a long, arduous day"_ to which Crowley replied, _"Neither of us are gonna have long, arduous day jobs, Aziraphale"_. Aziraphale, however, did _not_ respond to that, as he had dozed off on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley sighed, took the little glasses off his angel's nose, and dozed off quite quickly, himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, leave comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave comments and such.


End file.
